Like Riding a Bike

Today, as part of Bike to Work Week, I biked 7.3 km both ways and realized a couple of unnerving truths.

I'm working as a Special Education Assistant, helping students who are funny and brilliant and ready to put up a fight. And this afternoon, with legs still shaking like saplings in the wind (no, shockingly, I am not a professional cyclist), we went for a run. Well, "run" might not be the appropriate word.

I was told to bring up the rear. Teachers are very strategic - preparing for class feels like drafting a battle plan. We split into three groups, the runners and the walkers - and, as soon as the other teachers were out of sight, the leftovers. After thirty seconds, one girl made it very clear that she wasn't going anywhere - and if she wasn't moving, neither was I. She sat down in the middle of the trail, refusing to move or speak or make eye contact. So I started talking.

I remember being that girl. I remember watching other kids - the ones who grew up playing soccer and could lap me without breaking a sweat - go on up ahead. I remember the ache, when your lungs feel like they're going to explode and your heart is stammering empty excuses: "I'm not feeling well. I got lost. I didn't want to do it, anyways." Or the truth, words that catch on your breath with every pant:

I am trying.

I am trying so hard that my ribs are being forced apart by this swollen heart that just won't let me quit, won't let me stop caring, won't let me walk away.

I sat down on the trail, the black asphalt hot from the sun, and remembered.

I hated running. I hated the taste of metal in my mouth, the smell of sweat, the way every ragged breath seemed to say, "You are not good enough." I heard the words so often, echoing through my sore muscles and pounding heart, it took me a long time to think believe anything else about myself.

Self doubt is like riding a bike - once you learn, you never forget how to tear yourself apart.

I sat down on the trail and spilled my guts to a girl I barely know. To myself, years ago and every day. To each and every inch of skin and bone that has been pounded against the pavement in my mind, or yours, or by this sweet, sweet girl whose head jerked up at a kind word because she will never be used to being told she's good enough.

You are strong, my girl. You are strong enough to stand up, to walk, to run or even crawl. That doesn't matter. You are strong enough to finish this thing.

We stood, shadows falling as the sun rose and warmed the backs of our trembling legs. We got up. We kept going.

Today, as part of Bike to Work Week, I biked 7.3 km both ways and realized a couple of unnerving truths:

I am no Usain Bolt or Lance Armstrong (drugs or not, he could lap me without blinking).

Drinking three cups of coffee is probably not the best way to re-hydrate after a half hour ride to work.

Self-doubt is like riding a bike. Once you've mastered it, it's impossible to forget. And that should be terrifying - it should make you want to sit down in the middle of the road and refuse to move an inch. Getting back up is hard, but that doesn't matter. You are strong enough to finish this thing.